Grilled Cheese v 2.0

Yes, back to the drawing board, I haven't won anything yet. But if you remember, I'm planning on it. While my last attempt was enterprising, I decided to take a few steps back to the basics.

As a kid, grilled cheese often meant real cheddar cheese and wheat bread. What's a kid gotta do to get some Wonder bread and a processed cheese slice? Little did I know I would one day look to that lesser-appreciated sandwich for guidance. (Though I gotta say, a girl still loves her grilled white bread, bright-yellow-cheese sandwich with the soggy pickle slice, uh-huh.)

But, nothing toasts up like wheat bread. That crispy sheet on the outside that yields to toothsome bread on the inside, oozing with gooey melty cheese. Mmmm. My ultimate goal would be to find a white-flour bread that could replicate this feature, but until then, I'll stick with a nutty wheat slice. This time I chose a sprouted wheat bread for that extra crispy crunch.

Now for the cheese. They say shred it. I say, "Why?" Don't get me wrong, I understand the concept, but I'm not sure that it really has any true benefit. I think I've gotta chalk this one up to personal preference. And, being low maintenance (lazy), myself, I think I'd go with sliced in the future. Maybe.

I did have two types of cheese going this time, and since they were of different color, I think shredding was beneficial to the aesthetic. Another plus, you can play with the ratios of different cheeses, especially when they are difficult to slice. Case in point: I used sharp cheddar (not hard to slice) and Raclette (pretty hard to slice), so shredding worked beautifully.

As you may recall, I've used sharp cheddar before. Yeah, definitely hung up on sharp (or extra sharp!) cheddar. It is precisely the "sharp" that is the cornerstone of a killer (traditional) grilled cheese sandwich. The only problem with this kind of cheese is its gooey-ness or lack thereof. It melts, sure, but in a stringy (which is good), greasy (not so good) kind of way. I need a gooey melting cheese (i.e. little to no fat separation) to make this a great sammie. Enter Raclette. I chose Raclette for its melting qualities, and while I do love the flavor, unfortunately, it took away from the cheddary goodness of this sandwich.

But, getting closer...

So, yes, back to the drawing board. Can't complain, though, I do love the research.

Oh My Gouda! 10 Months Later

I was hiding one. That Gouda I made back in in July of last year, it had a twin. I had split the curds up into two small molds, pressed and waxed each individually. The second survived a longer life before being enjoyed, but boy, was it enjoyed.

The cheese was sliced in half, wax on (Danielson!). A reddish-orange oil oozed out from between the wax and the the Gouda that had shrunk within. The aroma was of ripe cheddar, bordering on stinky (the good kind of stinky). It was very dry and crumbly, but the texture remained smooth on the tongue, no unpleasant graininess. With the sharpness an aged cheese should have, a very subtle bitterness came through in the finish; not offensive, but something to improve upon.

Fantastic with a simple (or not-so simple) cracker, this cheese turned out to be a-okay. I'm guessing the exceptional dryness was a result of such a small piece of cheese being aged; I can imagine something larger would have fared better. But, it was small because I was unsure. After experiencing several failures, I was not ready to put a pound of cheese away for a year. I had to be sure it tasted good before I waited on its age. Hence, I split the batch; one for now, one for later.

Now, the challenge is being confident enough in my cheese to make one and put it away for long time.

I'm workin' on it. Sheesh.

It's Feta-like

Feta has a remarkable history that I was hardly aware of before now. Literally translated as "slice," the ancestry of this cheese has been chronicled in Homer's Odyssey. That's roughly 8,000 years ago, to you and me.

Though Greek in origin, the name "Feta" has become so commonplace to describe the solid, briny curds that there is little protection for it's true character (unless you're in the EU). Traditionally, and categorically, this cheese is made with sheep milk or a blend of sheep and goat milk, and must be aged wooden or metal containers for at least two months under brine.

And yes, that very special thing I had not too long ago, it wasn't feta. (They said it was feta, but it was really just a decadent adaptation.) Unfortunately, I have not yet had the pleasure to taste a true Feta, a Greek Feta, and it may be a while before I do - it is proving difficult to find outside of Greece. But I do know that my only truly amazing experience with a Feta-like cheese, came from Australia, made from sheep and goat milk. It shames all cow's milk (gasp!) imitations, as well it should.

I set out to recreate this experience. Who am I kidding - I made feta. I hoped it would come out flavorful and delicious; that was the best I could do. The first time, I began the endeavor later in the evening than I should have, and I simply couldn't entertain myself until 4 am when it was time to take down the hanging curds. And when I slept through sounds that should have brought me to tend to this matter (I was an hour late taking down the curds), the result was a hard mass, yes very feta-like, but after a few days in brine, I had salty rubber. On the second attempt, I began the endeavor later than I should have (hello, pattern) and once more depended on the sound of music to wake me from slumber. Yeah, not so much; again 1 hour late. But this time the results were much different.

Did I mention I used less rennet that second time? No, I forgot to tell you. Anyhow, on this occasion the curds were soft, almost jello like. I was not sure what to make of it. The delicate mass could barely stand slicing. Destined for a small baking dish, I determined that the cheese would not survive brine, so I opted for a generous salting at the base of the dish, and again atop the curds once inside.

Days later, a container full of cheese and brine emerged. I was surprised to find that the salt had leached just enough moisture from the cheese that the brine fully covered the slices. What's more, the cheese had become exceptionally firm. "Uh-oh," I thought, certain I was staring into another dish of bounceable curds.

I broke off a small corner, and was thrilled to find that I was terribly wrong. The curds were firm but so rich and creamy on the palette, with just the right amount of salt. It was amazing, really, I was quite impressed. Rarely do I offer myself a pat on the back...okay, I'm getting ahead of myself, I'll celebrate my accomplishments when I can do this a second time.

At this point, the curds were surely ready to be cut into cubes, destined for an olive oil soak; I'm trying to recreate an experience here. But because this was my first successful batch of this tangy farmer's cheese, I decided not to put any kind of herbs or spices in the oil, I wanted the true flavor of the feta-like cheese to stand on its own. I used my favorite oil, made with Arbequina olives; the green, grassy flavor of the oil is a huge compliment to this cheese.

Enjoyed alone, spread on crusty bread, alongside a crisp green salad - while the possibilities seemed not to end, the supply soon did. I'll have to make this again. I just hope I can make this again.

Now, I must tell you that some of the cheese never made it into the oil. My live-in baker was making pizza that very same day, and who doesn't love feta on pizza? However, we did not have any of the ingredients that would ordinarily (in my little world) accompany feta on this crisped-crust concoction, so an improvisation had to be made, and I was skeptical. Spicy Italian sausage and feta? No, that doesn't sound right. But let me tell you...perfect. It married beautifully with the sausage and truly won me over as a favorite topping combination.

YUM.